The Magic Within
by loves.lovely.words
Summary: "Bella, I would like to talk to you in person. I want to explain what I know of the disappearances and hopefully find our parents." - Join Edward and Bella in the literary journey to find their parents.
1. The First Letter

**Full Summary: **When a mysterious young man (with the key to unlock the answers she craves) comes into the life of 18 year old Bella Swan, her life is turned upside down as she travels through the worlds of the most beloved books of all time, searching for their parents and the truth about their past.

(Yes, this means that Bella and Edward will be living out the lives of the characters in some famous classic literature.)

* * *

><p><strong>Disclaimer: <strong>Twilight and its characters belongs to Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Hello all, thanks so much for taking the time to check out this story. It's my first venture into fanfiction writing... so I would really appreciate and adore all reviews and helpful information you have to give. I have to give a huge thanks to Project Team Beta for taking on this story. My beta's for this chapter were Gigi Scott and HerMightyUbergeekness. They were splendid! :)

Allons-y!

* * *

><p><em>There is something about words. In expert hands, manipulated deftly, they take you prisoner. Wind themselves around your limbs like spider silk, and when you are so enthralled you cannot move, they pierce your skin, enter your blood, numb your thoughts. Inside you they work their magic.<em>

_-Diane Setterfield_

Chapter One

It was late August. The sun had yet to say good night to a dessert sky, cotton candy and orange sherbet fighting for dominance. When I arrived home from my last class, light seeped through a small door window casting a pale patch on the pavement of my porch. I had gotten into the habit of leaving the hall light on when I left for the day. No one liked to return home to a dark, empty house. Having no prospects for company, I controlled the absence of darkness. It was because of said routine that I was able to easily spot a small, white, rectangular envelope waiting for me in the sliver of light. I picked it up and slid my key into the lock. My bright, empty apartment welcomed me with comfortable silence.

A letter, for me, was nothing short of an event — and not because the process of actually composing a letter was fast becoming a lost art form. It's not that I didn't enjoy people, just that I preferred books. Friends are few and far between when you would rather read than go out and party. I examined the envelope more carefully, flipping it over twice as I walked into my kitchen. It was slightly bloated, with the top right hand corner folded down. It's appearance gave the impression of the letter winking at me, mocking me with the knowledge of its contents.

Someone had gone through a lot of trouble getting me the letter. What stranger thought enough to write me when I had gone about my day unsuspecting? Elegant script spelled out my name in big, bold letters: B E L L A S W A N. The lack of address and postage alerted me to the fact that the sender most likely delivered it personally. I made myself a cup of Earl Grey and found my way to the office.

The room was almost barren. A large, blue egg chair was in the middle of the room, facing a wall adorned by two large portraits that were evenly separated. I took a tentative sip of the tea before placing it on a small side table that was situated between the chair and a massive, open window.

The first portrait was of my father, reading in his favorite leather club chair, completely oblivious to the person behind the camera. I inherited his passion for the written word. We shared a favorite feeling — the moment when you get lost in a book, when your world starts to pale out of existence, losing its color and vibrancy, as you sink yourself slowly into the pages of a different reality. The photograph captured the level of dedication to that world, which lay open in his hands.

The portrait's partner was of my mother. This too, I had inherited from my father. It was artistically altered in black and white, save for the single yellow tulip she held to her nose. Her dedication strayed from words and settled in the fragrance and beauty of everyday reality — one that was decidedly too brief. She died shortly after giving birth, leaving me her milk chocolate eyes and short temper. Everyone that had known her spoke highly of her, but how else would they to her lone child? They would always give me a sympathetic smile, sometimes a pat on the head, and then tell me how lucky I was to still have my father. My "luck" ended the day I turned sixteen.

I slowly opened the letter, hearing soft rips as my patience ebbed away. There were half a dozen pages of cardstock, folded thrice times neatly. It was written in the same script that embellished the envelope. There was a photograph stashed in the back, but it was left forgotten as I feasted on the first page. It began, as most letters often had, with a name. "Miss Swan" inquired for my personal attention and was all it took to seduce me into its letters, words, and sentences. It read:

_I often sit upon this windowsill, debating what I would write to you, given the opportunity. How must one start a letter to a practical stranger? "Shall I give her my story?" I would ponder, but then once started, think better of it. "Shall I tell her what I know of hers?" My next option being slightly worse than the first each thought thereafter becoming more unworthy than the last. This windowsill, though it provides a breathtaking view of my favorite meadow, does not offer much light on the subject of letter writing. Unfortunately, it is my belief that a story left untold festers and rots, molding in the stale air of silence. Neither story of ours is destined for such waste._

_It has not gone without notice that our lives could be mirrors of each other, Bella. My mother, Elizabeth Masen, who some would say had an unnatural appetite for literary works, raised me on her own. She brought me up on literature, much like your father did after your mother passed. Words became my closest companions when actual children my age remained absent. I was kind, but not outgoing enough to garner their interest. If I am to understand correctly, words were closer to you than actual people were as well, yes?_

_Unfortunately, like your father, my mother disappeared on September 13, 2004. I had just turned seventeen and was starting my senior year of high school when I went to live with my aunt Esme and uncle Carlisle. They are wonderful guardians, of course. Those who take in orphans (willingly and enthusiastically) usually are. They are caring and tolerable, and most importantly, honest._

_If my foster parents have taught me anything, which they most assuredly have, it is to remain honest to those around you. With that lesson, I must tell you that I have known of you for quite some time. When my mother disappeared Esme sat me down and explained everything to me. I do not think you were given such luxury of knowing what happened to your father _—_especially if you have yet to read his journals. My mother, like Charlie, left journals. I did not wish to read hers. I felt it a disservice to her memory, thinking her dead. Esme showed me the gravity of that mistake._

_Carlisle and Esme kept up a constant search for her. Posters around our hometown and surrounding cities asked passerby "Have You Seen This Woman?" No answer or lead came our way. It was then that they showed me the journals and letters my mother had left, and told me of my heritage. They started to look in places ordinary people cannot access. Only, now they have begun the search into Wanderlust, I'm afraid they, too, will disappear._

_Bella, I would like to talk to you in person. I want to explain what I know of the disappearances and hopefully find our parents. Our parents disappeared on the same day, and I believe they are together. I also have an idea of where they are. Please meet me tomorrow at 10 for coffee at the shop on the corner of Eagle and State Street. I need your help to find my family, and yours. I am begging you._

_Sincerely,_

_Edward._

His words left me spellbound. I couldn't say how long I sat there, in my big reading chair, reading the letter and digesting the words. I pulled the enclosed picture out and scanned the faces in the soft glow of the moon, which had, by then, risen high in the sky. It was well worn, with a white crease down the middle, creating a disjointed line between two couples. The couple on the left was my mother and father, smiles plastered across their faces, arms around each other. The other couple appeared equally happy and in love. The woman in the second couple was what one would call a classic beauty. Her smile was coy and secretive and her eyes danced with delight. The man stared at the woman to his right with complete adoration on his face. It was heartbreaking and hopeful to look at. If "Edward" was their child, I could only imagine what he looked like.

Edward's words, while captivating, confused me. What was the "Wanderlust?" and how did you get there? Did his heritage allow him access? The only way I was going to get answers I craved would be to go to meet him tomorrow. I wanted information on my father's disappearance.

I had been the last to see him. I was reading in my room when he knocked four times softly on the door. It was our signal – the one we used to tell each other to stop reading. I reluctantly dragged my eyes away from the pages of _Sense and Sensibility_ to say a quick good night to him. He had laughed at the fact that I was reading Austen, holding up a well-loved copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ himself, before heading into his bedroom. I went to sleep shortly after, and when I awoke, he was gone.

If Edward really had information on my father's case, there left no choice in the matter. I would meet him the next day and find out what he knew about this Wanderlust business, but more importantly, my past.

* * *

><p>AN cont: Please give around a week / a week and a half between updates. It's mostly all written out, but real life happens. Plus, it desperately needs beta'd. ;)


	2. The Meeting

****Disclaimer: **Twilight and its characters belongs to Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement is intended. **

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Hello all, thanks so much for continuing the story with me. Special thanks to Project Team Beta for offering their services. My beta's for this chapter were PerAmore91 and Pain Jane. They were absolutely fantastic. :)**

* * *

><p><em>Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested.<em>

_Sir Francis Bacon_

Chapter Two

I have always treated sleep as one would a call girl. I would invite her into my bed in the dead of night, and then proceed to let her have her wicked way with me. Just as the sun tickles the horizon, glinting off the morning dew, she is out the door. The rest of the day, I am sated, but far from satisfied.

The night I received my letter, she didn't bother to visit at all.

I walked into the coffee shop, a yawn lingering on my lips, two hours before my meeting with Edward. Anxiety consumed me while at the apartment, forcing me out of it and into the cozy café. I brought homework with me but had to force myself to use it as something other than decoration.

"Hello," a soft, virile voice came from behind me.

_Declamatory, mystic, severe._

He turned one word into a familiar melody, the name of which stuck permanently on the tip of my tongue. I surfaced from my homework, and my body hummed in recognition as I stood to greet him. I turned and was met with an impressive expanse of chest clothed in a dark grey button down. My eyes flittered down to the sleeves, rolled up to the elbow exposing pale arms, muscles flexed at the sides. A book bag lay against his hip, the strap cutting diagonally across his chest and creating a dent in his shoulder. I centered to his neck, lean and long. He had a strong jawline, one that could invoke inspiration for "the next face of Superman." Instead of Clark Kent's baby blues and dark curls, this jaw housed a different from of masculine perfection. Every feature was symmetrical and complemented each other. His lips were dark and lush, inviting all who admired to long for a kiss. Had those lips been curved into a smile, or offering something other than the harsh line of a scowl, I doubt I would have noticed the feature that left me most dazzled. His eyes were alive with deep vulnerability. They reminded me of stained glass, each shard reflecting a different jewel or exotic treetop. His hair was a dying fire, copper strands reaching out in every direction, seeking the air it needs to survive. Everything about him was fire, passion.

"Hi?" I replied. I glanced at the clock behind the service counter. I still had forty-five minutes before my meeting.

"You're early," he stated. Was this the writer of my letter?

"Edward?" I asked. He nodded curtly in affirmation.

"Well, so are you." He seemed loquacious in the letter, offering pieces of his life onto the pages. It obviously didn't transfer to his verbal communication skill set. We stood awkwardly for a few moments before I gestured to the seat opposite mine. He took it quickly, and I hastily cleaned up my studying materials. Papers crumpled and ripped as I shoved them roughly into my bag. A hint of a smirk teased the corner of his mouth before he opened it to speak.

"Yes, so it would seem. How are your classes?"

Was he serious? I hardly wanted to discuss school when he may know information on the disappearance. Propriety kept my manners intact, though.

"Well, thank you. I'm studying Eng—"

"English Literature, I know," he cut me off. He was abrupt and didn't bother to elaborate on how he obtained his information. He had his arms folded across his chest, unconsciously blocking me physically.

"You look a lot like your mother," I blurted. It was a nervous habit; my filter disappeared when I was uncomfortable. His eyes darkened before he broke eye contact, turning to look out the window.

"I get that a lot," he muttered, not turning back to look at me.

"I'm sure you do," I replied. I didn't know how to make him comfortable enough to talk. I couldn't erase what had been said, but keeping quiet seemed like the best option available.

He continued to stare out the window, studiously ignoring my presence. His attention slowly drifted to a lone strand hanging from the edge of his shirt. He had twisted it around his index finger thirteen times before he severed it, breaking the silence along with it.

"What do you know about the world of Wanderlust, Bella?" he asked, whispering the last two words.

"Nothing. I only first heard it when you mentioned it in the letter," I replied honestly. He snapped his head up and glared at me.

"Bullshit," he growled, clenching his fists above the table. "Your father had to have said something about it to you. At the least mentioned the Corruptors."

No, in fact, he hadn't. Anger has a funny way of blinding people from the truth. I knew enough of it to recognize that even if I defended my innocence, Edward wouldn't believe me. Again, I kept silent. The way he said "corruptors" implied a deeper meaning than "one who ruins something pure." Edward inhaled deeply, holding the air in his lungs for several moments before releasing it. His shoulders and face less tense.

"What is your opinion on Jane Austen?" He kept his eyes closed throughout the question.

"She is one of those authors that will remain immortal in the hearts of her readers; you can't help but fall in love with her characters. Even those who don't find her work particularly pleasing appreciate the innovative and creative bounds she made as a female writer. For me, I always find a way to become enthralled in any book of—" He barked out a chuckle of dark amusement. I paused and glanced at him warily. Even with his beauty and elegance, he was one of the most difficult people to carry a conversation with.

"As I was saying—" he blew out an exaggerated sigh, but I continued. "I always become enthralled in any book of hers. She can carry a reader through her stories in a magisterial manner."

"Okay, fair point. However, every time I read _Pride and Prejudice_ I want to dig her up and beat her over the skull with her own shin-bone," he stated. To anyone else, I'm sure it would have appeared a common statement.

"Mark Twain never viewed Austen as one of his favorite authors, however, he is also quoted as never having read her material in full," I challenged, my eyes not leaving his. I watched, gleefully, as his eyebrows rose.

"I figured you wouldn't know Twain," he stated, offhand.

"I _am_ an English Literature major, Edward. Wouldn't that be a bit out of character? I find pleasure in many different authors, some just more than others."

He opened up his book bag and took out two identical books. Though the binding was well thumbed, I recognized the covers immediately. He laid one so it was perpendicular to the edge of his side of the table, keeping one hand covering the other, he slid it to the middle of the table. I went to reach for it, but he lightly slapped my hand away.

"When was the last time you read _Pride and Prejudice, _Bella?" he asked. I was familiar enough with her work that I didn't require to look at it throughout school. The last time I read Austen was exactly two years and five days prior, on my sixteenth birthday. The last time I read _Pride and Prejudice _was at least a few months before that.

"I don't remember," I lied. His eyes flashed dangerously again. He violently pushed the book towards me. The book soared across the table before flying into my lap. I let out a moan of protest as it slammed into my stomach.

"If you're going to continue to lie to me, I have no interest in continuing this conversation. I thought you would have wanted to find your father. I must have been mistaken." He stood abruptly and came to my side. "Read the damn book tonight at around nine o'clock. If you truly do not know what 'Wanderlust' is, you will."

He stormed out of the coffee shop, gathering an array of onlookers. The small bell jingled for a few seconds after he slammed the door. The few patrons that had watched Edward leave turned to me with curious gazes. I shoved the book in my bag, along with my destroyed homework and left for home.

I was taught that everyone should have a sanctuary in his or her home. Most find serenity in the bedroom; mine was my office (or more appropriately, my reading room). It was for that reason that I refused to start _Pride and Prejudice_ in there. My memories of reading Austen were tainted with my father's disappearance. I settled into a comfortable position in my bed and began to read.

Like every time I began a book of hers, I was bitten by the last word of the second paragraph. The venom of her prose soared through my blood, numbing my soul from the reality of my bedroom. My apartment no longer existed. The only thing that mattered was Longbourn and Mrs. Bennett educating Mr. Bennett that "Netherfield Park is let at last."

Something changed though, as I continued to read. The words started to blur out of focus, swirling together. It made it harder to breath. I blinked my eyes.

Once.

Twice.

Three times before I opened them again to try to read. The book lay open in my hands, but it wasn't my bed that I was sitting on.

* * *

><p>I will be participating in The Totally 80's Contest, so please don't feel too upset if an update comes later than expected.<p> 


	3. The Second Letter

**A/N: Hi, thanks so much for the wait. It had to do with me participating in the Like, Totally 80's Contest and the Twilight of Craigslist Ad Contest. Check out their sites and vote! I have favorited them as an authosr on my page. It's anonymous, and even if you don't vote for the stories I posted... there are other equally as excellent ones up there! :)**

**My beta's for this chapter were supplied through PTB. Be sure to check their site out if you need any editing help :)**

**Specifically it was Pain Jane and CapriciousC. They were a delight to work with!**

* * *

><p><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> **Twilight and its characters belongs to Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement is intended.**

* * *

><p>"<em>If I find in myself desires which nothing in this world can satisfy, the only logical explanation is that I was made for another world."<em>

_C.S. Lewis_

Chapter Three

I looked about the unfamiliar area, confused, as the book toppled out of my hands and onto the bed. The room was far different from mine in furnishing and color. In _my_ room, I had plain, white walls and a mismatched bed set. The room I appeared in had plain wood walls and the furniture was much nicer. There was a matching armoire, vanity, and bookshelf. The pieces were coordinated with the four-poster bed. It was beautiful and classic, but not _mine_.

I jumped out from under the heavy covers, wincing slightly as my bare feet touched the chilled wood beneath. I ran to the window, ripping the curtain to the side. At first, my eyes only registered a ghost of a girl staring back at me. Her world was a pale, distorted version of my own. Everything about it was grey, murky, and undefined.

Together, we gaped. If the vivacity and color on my end wasn't taken into account, we could pass as twins. The same awed, horrified look etched across her face. She had my eyes, wide and unblinking. Her hair was pulled into a loose braid on her shoulder and she wore a long nightgown adorned with pale pink frills and bows. We stepped back simultaneously, elongating the picture. Under her gown, she even wore bloomers. I inspected my own body, seeing no difference. I wore the same attire and the same long braid lay on my collarbone.

My eyes travelled back up to the window, blinking. A blemish had appeared on her cheek, blurring the area further. Soft thuds announced the arrival of others, her face becoming unrecognizable by the second. The rain washed her away, leaving me alone in the strange room. I looked past the decomposed reflection and attempted to see outside. The rain made it difficult, but as I suspected, it was not the small yard of my apartment complex. Green pastures extended across a great distance, rolling over hills and under a few scattered trees. The house groaned under the crying sky.

To call the building in which I stood a house would have been an understatement. Young minds may have described it as a mansion. My love for reading extended my knowledge so I knew the best way to accurately define my surroundings would have been to call it an estate. I had my suspicions about where I resided. The rain, the furnishings, the fashion put me on alert. A soft robe was perched on a wooden peg of the standing mirror. I wrapped it loosely around myself before walking back to my bed.

_Pride and Prejudice_ still lay half open. I picked it up and thumbed through the yellowed pages meticulously. What was so different reading it this time versus the last? It was smaller than most and had been folded so it hadn't had the opportunity to draw my attention. The literary stickler in me admired the letter writer's forethought to put it in the chapter where Elizabeth reads Darcy's letter, and consequently, uncovers the truth about Wickham. I pulled the page free and opened it carefully. Perhaps this letter held answers as Darcy's had in the letter he had penned Elizabeth. The script was familiar, and I frowned in recognition. It read:

_Bella,_

_It's funny. Now that I have finished the "final draft" of my original letter, I find I cannot stop writing you. Are you my muse, fair Bella? The idea that I may see my mother shortly is making me giddy with anticipation. Are you as excited to possibly see your father?_

_I'm sure that I have already thanked you, but please accept my gratitude again for taking the book. If I was correct in my conjecture of your birthright, you are no doubt in Wanderlust. I do not know what characters we will be, but I cannot stress enough the importance of keeping the truth of your identity concealed. You never know when one of the Corruptors will be around to hear._

_There are two people that I am certain are currently in here that are safe to confide in. My uncle and aunt travelled here tonight as well. They too, are convinced that our parents are here. My uncle Carlisle has distinctive grey eyes and pale blond hair. My aunt has an odd shade of brown for her hair color, hazel eyes, and a freckle high on her right cheekbone. These two people are the only ones in whom I suggest you can place your trust._

_The arrival of so many Travelers is likely to bring attention to the Corruptors. I doubt they will bring any physical harm, but be safe. Tell no one who you are, stay true to your character, and keep an eye out for any clues you can find on our parents._

_Once you are aware of which character you are, think of the male they are most close to, and you will probably find me._

_Edward_

My eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Every time I received a letter from this strange, beguiling man, it always held answers—and a series of additional questions. Hot, frustrated tears prickled and stung my eyes, and I let out a huff of annoyance. Anger began to burn its way through my thoughts and body. I tore the letter into small pieces and tossed them to the bottom of the bed. It was as if I had been communicating to two different people. Edward of the letters was appreciative, helpful, and kind, not at all like the one who had met me for coffee.

As enticing as the idea and mystery behind Wanderlust was, it was becoming more and more difficult to accept it as an unknown. His letter left no doubt as to where (and when) I was—Longbourn in circa eighteenth century England. A fact that was still as hard a concept to grasp as the Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde act Edward was putting on. My mind was refusing to stay on that subject, a petulant child, stomping away to a corner and blissfully enjoying the disbelief.

What was its correlation with Wanderlust? I wanted to know if it was the force behind the push to be here. Was it some other dimension that appeared to be the world Austen so lovingly crafted? Or rather, was it a dreamlike state that you entered when reading? If I were here, where did that leave my body? I pulled a pillow from behind me and screamed into it. Another matter entirely was what character was I to be? Curiosity took hold and my anger still stood in the corner, pouting.

Muffled voices straining to find their way through the wood of my door interrupted my musing. I stepped out of the bed and tiptoed over to the door opening it slightly.

"…are my ribbons?" a young, shrill voice rang up from the stairs.

"Check Kitty's room, Lydia!" called a faint one from somewhere else within the house. A small girl with dark hair appeared and rushed towards me.

"Oh thank goodness! Lizzie, do you have any ribbons I could borrow?" she asked. Grabbing my hands.

Lizzie? As in…

Elizabeth Bennett?

"No way."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: As I have mentioned before, this is my first publicly released material. Any reviews, suggestions, or questions regarding plot are always welcome in form of reviews or private messaging. :)**


End file.
